Our arrival was noticed. It was noticed by the wading birds
on the edge of mudflats; the herons motionless and poised to strike, their gaze
intense and focused on the shallow pools and runnels that slowly filled with
the trickling advancing tide.
The high pitched, shrill, screech of the buzzard announced
our arrival as it ghosted through the viaduct arch on its way south; hugging
the mudflat marshland on the east bank, it’s wings gently whooshing as it past
a few feet overhead; its call a ‘wake up’ to both man and beast.
Arwen’s arrival at St Germans was noticed by the small
throng of people gathered at the quayside to admire the view. The welcome, genuinely
warm. “How far have you come?” “What a
pretty boat, what is she?” “You are planning to camp onboard, excellent, what
an adventure”. “Where are you planning on mooring?” “Are you adventuring
further up the Tiddy; you should be able to make it up to Tideford….but really
hug that first outer bend”.
Advice was proffered about appropriate places to beach but I
already had my spot in mind. Wanting to vacate the pontoon quickly for the
stunningly beautiful little wooden motor cruiser that had followed me up the
last section from the bend in the Lynher where it goes up to the Treluggan yard,
I briefly answered questions, made my apologies and dashed across the grassed quayside
to the slipway.
Ah, just sufficient tide, but not as much beach as I’d hoped
for. A string of small trots lay across the beach and they would impede access.
Further north the oak trees had grown down to the water’s edge, a further
impediment to landing. But, there was just enough mud/shillet on the north side
of the slip for me to slip in and ground Arwen for the night.
Dashing back across the quay, dodging the boats, ignoring
the pretty waterside cottages and their immaculate window boxes, I was well
aware that the little motor cruiser was having difficulty manoeuvring. With barely
any room or depth of water where boats were moored, her skilfully skipper and
crew had picked up a mooring on their second attempt in a gap infinitely
smaller than the boat itself. My shouted
intentions to vacate the pontoon and take to the beach were greeted with welcoming,
if not relieved, smiles. It had been a display of boat handling and seamanship
of a very high order.
Arwen glided to a halt. Her nose gently pushed down in to
the soft mud alongside the slipway. Held by her stern anchor, dropped into the
channel as I had approached and her bow painter, she slowly moved side to side.
I was pleased with the stern anchor location. I’d managed to drop it in enough depth
of water to make pulling off next morning easy; yet it was out of the way not
interfering with channel, slipway or neighbouring trots and moorings. I’d like
to claim it was skill but in truth, more likely down to luck.
As I mused about the intricacies of securing the bow warp
ashore in such a way that I could easily retrieve it in the morning, in the
dark, whilst afloat, I tripped over the very solution I required. A small metal
eye loop buried in the beach. Perfect. A long warp looped through the eye with
both ends secured back on Arwen. It could be pulled free easily in the morning.
As I tidied Arwen up after a day’s sail, sponged her out and
kept a wary eye on the incoming tide and how far it crept up the shoreline,
more people arrived to have a chat, admire Arwen and provide helpful
suggestions on how to keep her from drifting up onto the slipway alongside. A few
commiserated that the sailing club bar, at the opposite end of the quay, was
only opened Wednesday to Saturday nights.
”If only you had arrived Wednesday……..we could have chatted about your boat and
the building process…..would love to know how you did it……..”.
“What a marvellous
adventure, now that is real sailing, camping under a tarpaulin, splendid”.
“You’ll be fine there
overnight, soft mud, not too deep; stick some fenders out so you don’t knock
the slipway during the night. You can always loop a rope around the
neighbouring trot line to pull yourself slightly clear of the slip edge”.
The viaduct bathed in the warm glow of a setting sun; the
birds called; the harsh northerly wind was absent. No noise, no distant rumble
of traffic. Peace, serenity, calm; punctuated by the odd rumbling train high in
the sky. Ah, the GWR! The Great Western Railway, running from Paddington to
Penzance. I’m from a GWR family, father and Grandfather. It seemed so
appropriate, to camp onboard under the arches carrying the railway that
previous family generations had been so proud to serve. Now if only a few ‘Castle
class’ steam engines rumbled across. What a sight that would be to behold from
below.
Postscript
The skipper of the lovely little motor cruiser was called 'Trevor'. He writes articles for PBO (Practical Boat Owner), a popular monthly periodical here in the UK. He has been doing a tour of the British coastline, exploring its rivers, estuaries and ports, heading westwards in his journey; and I think, if I have this right, leaving his boat at different marinas during intervening times when he is not voyaging. He recognised Arwen from her YouTube channel and the very night before had been looking at one of our videos taken last time we voyaged up the Lynher together.
Our first recognition of YouTube fame!! Go figure.
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